


The Beauty in Self-Destruction

by huntthewicked



Series: bleed for me [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean gets in fights, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform, self-hating Dean, slight blood kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntthewicked/pseuds/huntthewicked
Summary: Dean stumbles in late one night bleeding after a random bar fight, which is happening more and more often.





	The Beauty in Self-Destruction

Dean stumbles in late one night and Sam thinks this is how all long nights start. 

He's clinging onto his arm, pressing a torn strip of fabric to an open wound. Fingers sticky with blood he stands in the light of the motel doorway, streetlights framing his figure so he's black, darkness and destruction, with the light behind him trying to cleanse him. He kicks the door closed and the light loses. Darkness infects the room like a cancer.

Sam rises out of the sleepless position he'd been inhabiting and sits for a moment on the uncomfortable bed, hands clasped to the rough sheets as he pushes against them to stretch his arms and shoulders. The shadows cloak Dean's still form so he's a single outline.

As Sam approaches him, he smells tobacco and sweat. When his eyes adjust to the lack of light he notices bruised knuckles, blood rising and turning the skin a watercolour blend of purple and blue with a clean patch where bone hits the surface.

This time the aftermath of whatever wayward fight Dean participated in shows that he was equally matched. His lip is split and the dark blood has dried to the wound, cracking ever so slightly when Dean's smile emerges. It's deadly and lethal, completely without joy or humour.

He has the face of anarchy, a face men desire when leading a revolution. Tyler Durden after a good fight, Han Solo after a bad one. 

Green eyes deepen with a raw intensity that Dean achieves after any fight like his personal brand of heroin, looking at Sam like this could go one of two ways- hard sex or brutal massacre.

They work together in a perfectly choreographed rhythm, Sam leads Dean to their bed with his hand gripping his brothers shoulder, and when Dean sinks into the mattress he drags the half-empty makeshift first aid kit from his own unpacked duffle. 

No words leave Sam's mouth, Dean doesn't offer an explanation and Sam doesn't ask. It's through pure arrogance and naivety that they share a common belief- Dean cannot die from basic, unadulterated violence. Dean will destroy his opponent, but never himself. 

Sam feels a overwhelming sense of nostalgia and Deja Vu combined. They will _always_ end up here, with Sam cleaning Dean's wounds and Dean lulling above him as if the pain doesn't bother him. As if he can't feel anything.

Blood stains the bandage he's secured around Dean's arm, and he tosses the kit to the side, leaving the dried blood to taint Dean's sculpted face. The lopsided tainting grin remains on his face as Sam helps him out of his flannel, and the t-shirt on underneath.

Dean is ever-changing. Each meaningless bar brawl, or calculated hunt rewards him with trophy scars and marks. He's beautiful.

The intensity in his brothers eyes has made way for desire and desperation, and control overrides submission. Dean closes the distance between them, leaning down into Sam's kneeling form. Before their tongues meet, and the kiss begins, Dean nips Sam's bottom lip. As Sam gasps reflexively, Dean grips the back of his hair and forces their mouths to meet. 

Sam responds in kind, simultaneously tasting the disorder on Dean's tongue and feeling the soft hair under his calloused fingers. He can feel Dean's broken lip against his, and when they break apart for air Sam grazes his teeth over the laceration. It starts bleeding again and his tongue mixes with the copper redness. 

They must paint a pretty picture, Sammy on his knees for his brother, cleaning blood away with his tongue. 

"I'm not gonna stop," Dean murmurs when Sam's work is complete.  
"I'm not asking you to."

If he asked, Dean would stop. But he doesn't want him to. Dean falls back against the bed and Sam follows, collapsing next to his brother. Trailing his fingers across Dean's stomach he traces every scar, white and red, by memory. 

"We need a fresh start."

Sam imagines a clean body lacking damage, free of blemishes and the stories that come with them. Removing all memories and hints of their time spent together. He knows it's not what Dean means, he means a new town, settle down, leave the hunting life behind.

It's a promise that keeps returning, rearing it's ugly head like a bad nightmare. They say it to each other because it's what normal people do, and they want to be normal so desperately that they convince themselves it's what they need. Really, they'd rather die in battle than live the apple pie life.

Dean will keep losing himself in fights and Sam will keep fixing his wounds.

"Not yet," Sam replies and presses a kiss to Dean's shoulder. Let them continue living with the delusion that eventually they will find happiness in idleness, when in reality they will never change.


End file.
